Chapter Text
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Wanda Maximoff was no stranger to parties.
She had attended her fair share of Tony Stark's extravagant gatherings. Yet, as she stood amidst the vibrant atmosphere of the inauguration party on Genosha, a sense of unease settled within her. Unlike Stark's events, where she was familiar with the guests and the dynamics at play, this event felt different, unfamiliar, and uncomfortable. Here, in the sanctuary of mutants, she couldn't help but feel a subtle tension, she couldn't help but feel the stares, the reminder of her identity as both an Avenger and a mutant herself.
Wanda hadn’t arrived at the party uninvited. Invitations had been extended to her, albeit through channels she rarely engaged with. Genosha joining the United Nations had put everyone on high alert however, so she had been keeping up to date on things.
For all her brother’s persistent, annoying encouragements to forge a connection with their estranged father, Wanda had maintained little to no contact with Magneto over the past couple of years, ignoring the many olive branches the ex-terrorist would offer.
Pietro had reached out multiple times himself to talk to Magneto, open to bridging the chasm that had long separated them— ignoring the warnings and fears voiced by Bova. While Wanda did not trust a word the High Evolutionary said leading up to Magneto’s ambush that day, Bova’s words held true. She could feel it. Wundagore had felt like home to Wanda, her magic resonating in her very being, her hexes stronger and easier to cast. Bova had spoken the truth that day.
Hadn’t Pietro been the one who led their vengeful charge against the man responsible for their mother’s death?
And now, this olive branch stood out among the rest. Once a terrorist, now a statesman? Tony and Clint found the idea so preposterous that they couldn't help but burst into laughter, brought to hysterics at the mere idea. Steve reacted differently, his demeanour shifting to one of quiet contemplation, silently observing Wanda’s own reaction.
Magneto's desire to reconcile, despite her many attempts to block him out, touched her in a way she didn’t expect. The invitation arrived without fanfare, unlike Magneto’s previous overtures. The man was grandiose by default, always making his presence known. But this had slipped into her mail quietly, almost hesitantly. A simple invitation, not official, and written by Magneto’s own hand. His words were laden with unspoken hopes and uncharted possibilities.
She fought the curiosity and the deeply buried longing inside of her to just know the man who shared her blood.
Sensing her inner turmoil, Steve had gently guided her to a secluded corner, encouraging her to vocalise her thoughts about the situation. He patiently listened as Wanda navigated the tangled web of emotions stirred up by Magneto’s and her brother’s attempts to connect. Steve was always easy to talk to.
It had been Vision, in the end, that convinced her to accept. The synthezoid had no blood family, no true experience in life, yet… He had been the most helpful, the most understanding. Django was her father, yes, and nothing would change that. He had been the one who raised them and kept them safe and loved regardless of the early manifestations of their chaotic mutations. But it was Django who sent them on their holy mission to seek their natural parents. He had wanted more for the twins.
If Magneto is truly trying to be better, Vision had said, referring to the catastrophe at his trial. You may regret not seeking the truth for yourself.
As she stepped through the bustling hall and towards the bar, music in her ears and the clinking of glasses around her, Wanda couldn't shake the unease swirling within her.
A glass was thrust into her hand, distracting her. “Haveyouseenhimyet?” Pietro blurted out quickly, alcohol on his breath. They had arrived at the same time and he already—she sighed, feeling the nerves emanating from her brother.
“I just got here, Pietro,” she murmured, swapping their drinks. Trust Pietro to try and give her something non-alcoholic.
He squinted at her as she took his glass, but didn’t fight her for it. Very nervous, it seemed. “Didn’t you see him last week?”
“Uh, no,” he said, distracted. He was looking around, bouncing on his feet. “Had some stuff with X-Factor, haven’t had time.”
Wanda frowned, tilting her head to look at his eyes. “...Everything alright?”
Pietro scratched his cheek, then rolled his shoulders. His anxiety was making her skin crawl. Wanda held back from scolding him, knowing all too well that her brother's mind operated just as fast as his feet, processing thoughts and emotions in a whirlwind of activity.
“Uh-huh,” Pietro mumbled, and suddenly he had her glass again, downing it.
“Ah!” She wasn’t above scolding him for being annoying. She pinched his ear, tugging on it harshly.
Pietro let out a pained sound, instinctively leaning into the pressure in a bid to alleviate the sharp sting radiating from his earlobe. “Stooopp…”
Letting go of his ear, Wanda seized the opportunity to deliver a swift swat to the back of Pietro's head. “Behave.”
Pietro let out an exaggerated groan, rubbing the back of his head where her hand had made contact. He shot his sister a mock glare before breaking into a lopsided grin.
“You dressed up,” he teased, twirling one of her curls around his finger, a playful glint in his eyes.
Her eyes narrowed, scanning him up and down. As if he didn’t also dress up. Pietro's attire was as extravagant as hers, if not more so. Clad in shades of blue adorned with frills, belts, and lace, his outfit displayed a flair for the dramatic that matched her own. His outfit had a similar design to hers, both honouring their Romani heritage. They had matched even though they had not communicated in the days leading up to the event.
“...Janet helped.” Wanda had plenty of dresses because of the various Avengers parties over the years. Lots of gifts from Hank and Janet, and an exorbitant amount of ‘witchy stuff’ from Tony; their thoughtful gifts ensured that she had a diverse wardrobe to choose from for any occasion.
This one though, with the bare shoulders, form-fitting bodysuit, and gloves extending up to her biceps—radiated a sense of elegance and power that resonated deeply with her. It was a reflection of her identity. Adorned with a beaded headpiece and an assortment of necklaces, charms and rings, it was more than just attire. It felt like home.
(She wanted to show Magneto this, for some reason. Wanted him to see who they were, who they became without him.)
She watched as he set his glass down on the bar, his gaze returning to her with a fondness that spoke volumes. “Mother would be proud,” he said simply. Honestly.
The mention of their mother evoked a bittersweet ache. She knew he referred not to their birth mother, but to Marya, the woman who had raised them with love and tenderness.
Wanda shot him a warm smile, stepping into his space to loop an arm around his middle. They were like water and oil far too often these days. Despite that, being so far away felt agonising sometimes, and being here with him felt like two halves of a whole coming together once more.
He responded with that familiar dorky smile of his, a gesture that never failed to bring warmth to Wanda's heart. Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, he drew her close in a comforting embrace.
“You’re an idiot,” she mumbled into his shoulder.
“Oh, am I?” He retorted playfully, wiggling his fingers against the back of her neck. The unexpected sensation made her flinch away, a burst of laughter bubbling up from within her.
They both chuckled, their laughter mingling in the air like a shared melody. After a moment of peace, Pietro's expression softened, his fingers tenderly tidying up stray strands of her hair with a light touch.
Always taking care of her, when they weren’t yelling or disagreeing on something. She hoped it would last. Just as she was about to invite him to dance, she noticed a shift in his expression, a subtle narrowing of his eyes as his fingers toyed with a particular spot in her hair.
A subtle crease formed between her brows, her gaze flickering to his hand. She quirked a brow in confusion, following his line of sight. Soon enough, she realized that his attention wasn't directed at her, but at his own wrist.
Adorning his wrist was a chain bracelet, its delicate links shifting and twisting of their own accord. It was a perplexing sight, one that defied rational explanation. An inexplicable force tugged at the bracelet with an almost magnetic pull. She had never known her brother to wear jewellery, seeing as his speed didn’t accommodate anything other than rings, so why—
A ripple of unease coursed through her, a whisper of apprehension stirring in the depths of her mind as she realised what was happening.
They both turned their heads in unison, their eyes following the direction in which the chain was being pulled. There.
Through a door off to the side, Magneto lurked in the shadows, his piercing gaze fixed on them. His eyes were sharp—wide, yet expectant, lingering on her. With a subtle nod of his head, he beckoned them closer, signalling for them to join him. As quickly as he had appeared, Magneto stepped out of view, disappearing into the depths of the room beyond. It was a silent summons, yet the weight of his presence lingered in the air.
Wanda's anxiety surged like a tidal wave, threatening to overwhelm her as she grappled with the reality of facing their father. The anticipation of this moment had loomed large in her mind, yet now that it was upon her, she found herself unprepared for the flood of emotions it unleashed. Preparing to see him and actually seeing him were very different things, apparently.
As if sensing her distress, Pietro dropped his hand to instead take ahold of hers, his grasp firm as he offered her his silent support. In that fleeting touch, she found solace—a reminder that she was not alone in this daunting journey.
With a nod of gratitude, Wanda allowed herself to be guided by her brother's steady presence into the room where their father awaited them.
Magneto stood by the window, a solitary figure silhouetted against the backdrop of the gardens below, his gaze on some distant point in the horizon. Wanda felt Pietro's hand give hers a subtle squeeze, a gesture of solidarity that gave her a momentary sense of reassurance amidst the tension that hung thick between them.
And then, as if by some unseen force, the door closed behind them with a soft click, sealing them within the confines of the room. Wanda's pulse quickened at the unexpected sound, a knot of apprehension tightening in the pit of her stomach. It was a subtle yet ominous reminder of the power their father wielded.
“Father,” Pietro greeted after a beat. He released her hand, leaving her feeling cold.
“Son,” Magneto said as he turned to them, a fondness in his voice that Wanda didn’t expect. She didn’t know what to expect, really.
Anger had been her constant companion in the past—an all-consuming fury born of the knowledge that a villain walked the same bloodline as hers, a man who had wreaked havoc upon the world and yet still tried to claim them as his own. It was a bitter pill to swallow—what was she supposed to feel in the face of such complexity? He had saved them from the clutches of the High Evolutionary, a gesture that had not been forgotten, even if it was tainted by his own thirst for vengeance. But it was also revenge in their names, as well as their mother’s.
The question echoed in the recesses of her mind, unanswered. Maybe, she thought, she was just searching for excuses, grasping at straws in a futile attempt to make sense of the nonsensical.
"What's with the whole..." Pietro began, his fingers wiggling in a playful imitation of Magneto's magnetism. "Stealth act?"
Magneto's sudden flustered demeanour caught Wanda off guard. “Only a limited number of people know about… our relation.” Such a pompous man, Wanda thought. “It would probably be best if that detail was kept to ourselves….” Magneto continued, his gaze shifting away as if unable to meet her eyes.
Wanda blinked. Was he… ashamed of them now? After all the praising Pietro had done, all the effort for this man—Wanda couldn't help but bristle at the implication. Such arrogance, she thought, feeling a surge of indignation rise within her at the notion of being hidden away like some shameful secret.
“...It would not do good for my enemies to know of your existence.”
The twins exchanged a silent glance, Pietro's eyes pleading for her to understand. Wanda met his gaze with resignation, her heart heavy with disappointment, begrudgingly accepting their father's reasoning. She does understand ; she has seen her fair share of battles that have only occurred because of personal vendettas. She was just… unimpressed.
“Good call, Father,” Pietro said, stepping towards him.
Wanda observed with surprise as her brother was casually swept into an embrace by their father, the familiarity momentarily stunning her. It was a scene that seemed to unfold effortlessly as if they had done this countless times before—an intimacy between them that Wanda had not anticipated. She hadn’t known the two had… grown so close.
A pang of jealousy surged within her, unbidden and unwelcome, as she grappled with the sudden realization that she was on the outside looking in. They had shared moments like this before, she knew, but seeing it now in the flesh made it all so real.
Even as jealousy threatened to consume her, Wanda pushed the emotion aside, burying it beneath a facade of indifference. She was supposed to be mad at him, wasn't she? That was the role she had assigned herself, the narrative she had constructed to shield herself from Magneto’s association. And yet, as she stood on the sidelines, watching her brother and father embrace with a familiarity she had never known, she couldn't help but wonder if there was room for her in their shared affection.
The similarities between the two men were striking, almost unsettling in their likeness. Pietro was like a mirror image of their father, his features were a near-perfect replica of the man who stood before them. From the angular lines of their jaw to the piercing intensity of their eyes, it was as if they had been carved from the same mould. The only real difference between the two men was Magneto's longer hair, but even he sported the two loose tufts that Pietro had. It was so strange seeing this.
Growing up, they had looked vastly different from their adoptive parents and everyone else, a fact that had often led to scorn and disdain from their neighbours. They had been outcasts, outsiders in a world that didn't understand or accept them for who they were. It was a life marked by isolation and alienation, a constant reminder of the barriers that separated them from those around them.
Wanda couldn't help but wonder how different their lives might have been if they had been raised by this man. If he had been given the chance to be their father, to guide them and shape them into the people they were meant to be. It was a thought that lingered in the back of her mind, a silent whisper of what-ifs and maybes that haunted her dreams.
Would they have been consumed by the same darkness that seemed to shadow their father's every step?
Wanda's brow twitched involuntarily as she witnessed the unexpected tenderness Erik directed at Pietro. He cupped the side of her brother’s neck, pressing their foreheads together. A wave of discomfort washed over her—a sense of intrusion, as if she were witnessing some intimate ritual to which she shouldn’t be privy to.
A part of her cursed the fact that she was resistant to having access to that, and another part of her was uncomfortable, still wanting to be cautious. He was a terrorist, damn it, she reminded herself sternly. A man whose actions had caused immeasurable pain and suffering to countless innocents. And she was an Avenger— a warrior sworn to uphold justice and protect the innocent from those who would seek to harm them. The conflict within her raged on, torn between the longing for connection and the need for vigilance.
Erik nodded in response to something Pietro whispered to him, a flicker of understanding passing between the two. As he released Pietro from his hold, he turned his attention to Wanda, his eyes betraying a nervousness that mirrored her own. With deliberate steps, he crossed the room until he stood before her, his hand extended tentatively.
Wanda hesitated, her gaze locked with his as she grappled with a minefield of conflicting emotions. It was a moment fraught with uncertainty, a fragile bridge spanning the chasm that divided them.
But despite her reservations, Wanda found herself ultimately complying, her hand trembling slightly as she reached out to meet his.
Erik brought her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her knuckles with a softness that took her by surprise. It was a gesture both intimate and respectful, a fleeting moment of connection between them that spoke volumes. There was something tender and vulnerable in the gesture, a glimpse of the father he might have been.
However, as his lips brushed against her hand, she couldn't help but feel a pang of discomfort; It felt so foreign. He was a man of contradictions, she realized, capable of both great kindness and unfathomable cruelty. And as she stood there, her hand in his, she couldn't help but wonder which version of Magneto he would lead Genosha with.
"You are so beautiful, meine Liebe," Magneto remarked, his voice soft with sincerity as he bestowed her with a small smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
"Oh..." Wanda faltered, her words catching in her throat as she struggled to find a suitable response. "Um... Thank you, Magneto..." she managed, her voice uncertain.
"Please," he implored, a hint of pain shadowing his features. "Call me Erik, at least."
Wanda blinked, her eye darting briefly to her brother, who stood behind Erik with an idiotic grin. Whatever.
"Okay," she murmured. Her gaze drifted downward, drawn to where Erik's thumb was gently rubbing against her knuckles in a motion that felt oddly personal. It was a simple yet profound moment.
Wanda swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. She glanced at Pietro once more, her brother's grin still firmly in place. The urge to hex his bowels was almost overwhelming. Idiot.
“I am very happy to see you both today,” he said softly. “I am sorry for the secrecy. I just need you safe.”
"I understand," Wanda said gently, her voice softening as she spoke. She believed him fully, could sense the sincerity in Erik's words, the genuine remorse that coloured his apology, and it was enough to soften the edges of her lingering doubts. It was a stark contrast to the Magneto she’d seen the last time they had met—a figure consumed by anger and vengeance, his actions driven by a desire for retribution.
But then he had retreated into the shadows, disappearing from the public eye as he grappled with the demons that haunted him. She had heard the stories, of course—Pietro's tales of their father's covert heroism, of the times he had emerged from the shadows to save the world from imminent destruction.
She hadn't been sure what to expect when she finally came face to face with him once more. She hadn't thought Magneto was capable of goodness, at least not for the betterment of humans. Seeing was believing, after all, and in this moment, she could see the genuine remorse in Erik's eyes, the earnest desire to make amends for past mistakes.
Erik's eyes scanned her face, lingering on the familiar contours of her features—the curve of her jaw, the delicate shape of her nose. She felt a flush creeping up her cheeks under the weight of his critical gaze, a sudden self-consciousness settling over her as she shifted on her feet, unable to meet his penetrating stare.
"You look so much like your mother," he whispered, his voice tinged with a hint of longing as his fingers ghosted over the intricate beads hanging from her headpiece.
She drew in a sharp breath at his comment, noting the glassiness in his eyes. He had claimed in Wundagore that he loved her mother, and she recalled the distress in his voice when her marker had been destroyed in their ambush. His expression pulled at her heartstrings in a way she hadn’t experienced before.
When the crook of Erik’s finger grazed her chin, Wanda pulled away. She took a step back, putting some distance between them. She thought she was ready to face this renewed version of him, perhaps because she hadn’t believed it before. Facing what she had expected to be a—a madman on a quest for power but was in actuality a broken man trying to be the best he could be—it had shaken her. This man was her father. Magneto was her father, and he was so gentle.
She thought she had already processed this. She had just buried it.
Erik's eyes fell to the ground, his shoulders slumping as he gave her space. "Apologies," he murmured softly, his voice heavy with regret.
Wanda nodded her head quickly, hands coming up to rub her arms to soothe herself. Pietro zipped to her side in an instant, his presence a reassuring anchor amidst the uncertainty, his warm hand coming to rest gently on her shoulder. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t need to. She knew he was there for her.
“I cannot take any of the credit for who you have become, but I am so proud of you nonetheless.”
Wanda looked up at Erik’s firm words, eyes wide. Everything he was saying was exactly the right thing, full of sorrow and hope. Every word was like a hurricane on her psyche, breaking her down to his level.
He took a hesitant step towards them, slowly placing both of his hands on their shoulders. “I would shout that you are my children to the heavens if I could,” he said, looking between the two. “Because it would be a shining light on my legacy for your names to be related to mine. There are… no words to express the regret I feel in not being in your lives, meine Sterne . I sincerely hope that after today we will see more of one another.”
And with that, Erik released them from his grasp, his touch lingering on their shoulders for a moment longer before he turned to leave. His footsteps echoed softly against the floor, a solemn rhythm that reverberated through the empty room. The door swung open, revealing the dazzling lights and laughter of the party beyond.
Erik hesitated on the threshold, his gaze lingering on his twins. There was a sense of finality in the air, a silent acknowledgement of the distance that still lingered between them.
As the door closed behind him, cutting off the stream of light and sound, Wanda and Pietro were left standing in the quiet darkness. She felt a sense of emptiness sweep over her, the void that was left in Erik's wake settling.
Pietro’s voice broke through the heavy silence, a quiet whisper in the stillness of the room. "...You okay?"
Wanda didn't know how to answer. Her emotions were a whirlpool, a jumble of conflicting feelings that she couldn't quite untangle.
"I don't know," she admitted, her voice barely audible.
Pietro's arms envelop her in a comforting embrace, Wanda couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief. In his arms, she found solace. With her head resting against his chest, she closed her eyes, letting him rock her lightly.
All they could do now was wait and see what their father had in store for them, and hope that the choices they made in the days to come would lead them towards a brighter future.
==͟͟͞͞ =͟͟͞͞ =͟͟͞͞ ( 🗲 =͟͟͞͞=͟͟͞͞=͟͟͞͞ #
Notes:
meine Liebe - my dear
meine Sterne - my starsI realised a bit too late that Magneto is offered a seat on the Genoshan council after they arrive. So there’s really no time for him to send a letter to Wanda and there’s no way for her to know he was offered a seat blah blah I don’t actually care. Just roll with it. I’m begging you.
Also, hope I did Wanda justice in the first part. The twins being Romani is like, a huge part of their characters and the various adaptations that don’t do that are really missing that depth. Even Magneto being German-Jewish is always kinda vague because of censorship, I guess? (+Polish? I’ve had him be quite Polish in the other fics because of the movies and various Evo fic, and only recently read Magneto Testament, where he’s exclusively German-Jewish; ‘92 was obviously made before that was) It’s such a shame, cause how will people remember if the stories aren’t told?
I’ve said it before—their characterization is a huge vomit-amalgamation of the movies, comics, cartoons, and the games. I haven’t seen the Avengers cartoon from the 90’s so I just used the OG team. It’s whatever.
Lastly, I was going to do a section with Pietro covering the destruction, but Wanda’s part got long enough to be a stand-alone. If Magneto isn’t in the next episode, I’ll most likely do it and add another chapter here. EDIT: I'm continuing this!
Chapter 2: travels through a world of built-up anger
Summary:
Pietro Maximoff was not one to run away from a fight.
He would fight until he couldn’t anymore. Even if he was usually just playing support for the rest of X-Factor, he took pride in his role as the one who would get them out of a fight, ensuring that they saw another day.
But this—
He saw the explosion in his sister’s eyes before he saw it himself.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
==͟͟͞͞ =͟͟͞͞ =͟͟͞͞ ( 🗲 =͟͟͞͞=͟͟͞͞=͟͟͞͞ #
Pietro Maximoff was not one to run away from a fight.
He would fight until he couldn’t anymore. Even if he was usually just playing support for the rest of X-Factor, he took pride in his role as the one who would get them out of a fight, ensuring that they saw another day.
But this—
He saw the explosion in his sister’s eyes before he saw it himself.
He could run at speeds of Mach 10 and it still wouldn't be enough to save all these people.
So, he did the only thing he could do at that moment. Without hesitation, Pietro lunged forward, his movements a blur as he grabbed hold of Wanda and propelled them away from the impending disaster. In the blink of an eye, they had vanished from the gala, leaving behind a trail of dust in their wake.
His thoughts briefly went to Magneto and all the other heroes inside, but he knew from experience that a single misstep or the slightest hesitation when running from an oncoming explosion was life and death. A sinister green light had filled the main hall, encompassing Magneto, Rogue, Archangel, Banshee—all of them were caught in the path of destruction. He had seen Madrox and Rahne somewhere too. He had to hope that they would be alright, that they would see the danger before the last second and protect themselves.
His priority is and always will be Wanda.
The ground trembled beneath their feet, fissures splitting open the once-solid earth as the world around them descended into chaos. His heart pounded in his chest as he navigated the treacherous terrain, cracks in the cement and dirt appearing and lifting, almost sending him off balance. He had to leap from rock to wall to rubble, from one crumbling surface to the next, Genosha shaking underneath him.
The air crackled with energy as the walls shattered around them, debris raining down like a deadly hailstorm. His instincts kicked into overdrive as he pushed his speed to its limits, his every muscle straining with the effort of carrying both himself and Wanda to safety.
She was clinging to his neck, hiding her face as he ran faster than he’d ever done before. She wasn’t used to this speed—he had always been careful to go slow when carrying her, knowing she’d feel sick afterwards. But now, there was no time for caution—only the urgent need to escape the fire that was hot at his heels.
He wasn’t fast enough— he’d done everything right leading up to this. Yet, upon seeing the colossal creature, this wild Sentinel— a monstrous behemoth that seemed to tower over them like a grim spectre of death — aiming at the gala with deadly intent, a surge of fear gripped his heart like a vice. Suddenly all of Pietro's training felt woefully inadequate in the face of such overwhelming power.
Pietro tripped.
His foot caught on some stray chunk of debris, sending them tumbling to the ground in a whirlwind of motion. He hugged Wanda’s body close, cradling her head as he lost his concentration. Time sped up, and the world tilted on its axis.
It hurt. He hadn’t fallen out of his superspeed and into a fall since before X-Factor and the Avengers. It had been early days for himself and Wanda; barely adults and hiding out in a small village, trying to live. He had slipped in the snow trying to save a girl from crashing into a tree—and just like back then, Wanda threw her arm out, a red aura around her fingertips as they tumbled into a nearby river bank instead of the piling rubble.
The destruction on the surface was muffled by the water in his ears, fragments of wreckage shooting through the water and swirling around them in a deadly dance. Pietro's head throbbed with a sharp, stinging pain at his temple, the sensation intensifying with each distant explosion.
As the darkness of the depths enveloped them, he struggled to orient himself, the murky waters obscuring his vision and clouding his thoughts. Water flooded his lungs, suffocating and stunning him in equal measure, while the weight of his soaked clothing dragged him further into the abyss. The one time he tried to dress nice and the clothes were weighing him down.
An arm slithered its way around his chest, pulling him up. Wanda —
With a desperate effort, she broke through the water's surface, gasping for air as she dragged him out of the river and onto solid ground. She panted, rolling him on his back, crying out words that he couldn't hear. Her hands frantically touched his neck and face, searching for why he was so limp.
Pietro found himself struggling to draw breath, his chest constricting with a crippling force. He felt a pressure on his sternum, pushing down and—forcing the water out. He choked some out, but not enough. Red sparks flickered in his peripherals, and then all the water abruptly surged up his throat, making him roll on his side, choking and sputtering onto the dirt.
He gagged, the remnants of the water dribbling out of his mouth. Each cough sent ripples of pain through his chest. A gentle hand rubbed his back encouragingly, his sister’s voice whispering to him, calming him. There was only that single moment of peace, however, as another explosion caused the earth to shake even more, shockwaves rippling through the ground as more rubble and debris rained down around them, crashing perilously close to the riverbank.
“Shit,” he breathed, voice hoarse. The Sentinel— Father—
People—innocent people, children , were screaming. Anguished cries pierced the air, a haunting chorus of terror and despair. Up the hill, the once-glamorous gala hall lay in ruins, reduced to little more than a smouldering heap of cinders. In the dust left behind, the ominous glow of green eyes bled through the darkness, burning with a malevolent energy that sent shivers down Pietro's spine.
The Sentinel's eyes scanned the streets below with chilling precision. Pietro and Wanda were far enough away to evade its attention, but they watched in horror as, without warning, a nightmarish beam of green energy erupted from its gaping maw, tearing through the buildings of the city like a hurricane, leaving destruction in its wake.
“Oh, god,” Wanda whispered, covering her mouth with trembling hands. All around them, the air reverberated with the shrilling roar of the blast, each explosion a deafening symphony that blasted their eardrums and rattled their very souls.
Pietro instinctively turned towards his sister, pulling her close against his chest protectively. With gentle hands, he covered her ears, shielding her from the genocide that resonated all around them. But even as he sought to protect her, Pietro could feel his own heart in his ears, aching with every laboured breath he struggled to draw—each beat a thunderous drumroll that threatened to overwhelm his senses.
Inhaling deeply, he forced himself to focus on the sensation of air filling his lungs, allowing time to slow to a crawl around him as he fought to regain control. Everyone was in danger, and the chaos surrounding them only seemed to intensify with each passing moment. Civilians scrambled in panic, their cries and footsteps echoing through the streets as they fled.
His gaze shifted upwards towards the towering behemoth that loomed over the city, its presence casting a shadow of dread over all who beheld it. His eyes narrowed as he focused on the mutants who circled the monstrous Sentinel, their forms darting between the fallen buildings as they worked tirelessly to aid the fleeing people.
Pietro knew what he had to do. He was a member of X-Factor, Wanda an Avenger. They had a duty, and there was no time for hesitation, no room for doubt—not when every second wasted meant another life lost to the onslaught. They couldn't afford to wait, couldn't afford to second-guess themselves when lives hung in the balance.
He steeled himself for the battle ahead, his jaw set with resolve. Time sped up once more, determination etched onto his face. With his hands cradling Wanda’s face, he made her look at him. There were tears in her eyes, and that was not acceptable.
He pressed his forehead to hers, an echo of what their father had done to him less than an hour ago, keeping her steady.
“Save as many people as you can,” he said. His words were barely audible over the chaos, but he knew that Wanda heard him, knew that she understood the gravity of their situation.
A fire seemed to light up in her eyes, and this time it wasn’t from the destruction around them.
“Don’t be stupid,” she choked out, her nails digging into his arms. She murmured some words, and a red pulse of energy lit up his skin—a protection charm. “Stay away from the big one.”
He nodded his agreement, knowing deep down he was lying. They weren’t like most of the mutants on Genosha, as they were trained for fighting. Maybe not against monstrosities like this , but they had experience most didn’t. He had to make it count.
He shrugged off his blasted jacket, throwing it to the ground, torn up and forgotten. His ears—he touched them, feeling something sticky. Blood? His earrings were lost the moment he picked Wanda up. The chain his father had gifted him was still around his wrist though—that went into his pocket.
Then, he was gone. This—it wasn’t a fight he and Wanda could fight together. They were liabilities to each other. It had been the reason they split up and joined different teams. If he saw her in danger, he would condemn all of Genosha to save her. They both understood it, accepted it, and forced themselves to work around it.
High on adrenaline, Pietro raced with blinding speed, his movements a blur of motion as he navigated the chaos that engulfed the city. He propelled himself up the wall of a still-intact building with a burst of energy, his feet skidding on the rooftop as he came to a sudden stop. He stepped onto the edge, getting the lay of the land.
The three-headed Sentinel was spitting out smaller, more familiar ones all over the city. Every corner, every street, every road was a battleground. Everywhere he turned—mutants, once hopeful for a brighter future, were now being crushed, thrown, and vaporised before his very eyes.
He readied himself for the daunting task ahead, formulating a mental map of the city sprawled out below him. Movement in the corner of his eye made him turn; on a rooftop down the street, a distinctive purple puff of smoke billowed into the air.
Nightcrawler?
He saw Nightcrawler fall, Rogue and Magneto appearing from the smoke. They made it. With a sigh of relief, Pietro felt the claw around his heart loosen, and it was suddenly easier to focus on the task at hand, knowing they were safe for now. He turned back to the street below, watching in slow motion. Each second stretched out before him as he meticulously planned his next move and mapped out the best path to take down as many Sentinels as possible.
Pietro ran — his feet boomed against the concrete as he propelled himself down the side of the building with a burst of speed. Every stride carried him further and faster, the wind whipping past him as he pushed his limits to their extreme to gain as much momentum as possible. Turning sharply, he executed a series of precise manoeuvres, weaving through the maze of streets with expert agility as he sought to maximise his speed. Wanda’s hex held strong, protecting his eyes and skin from the intense heat generated around him. He surged down the street like a force of nature unleashed, his every step sending shockwaves reverberating through the pavement beneath him. The threat of the Sentinels only grew with each second he wasted.
He refused to yield to his fear…!
Drawing upon the momentum of his furious charge, he launched himself into the fray with unparalleled ferocity. He brought his knee crashing up into the jaw of the first Sentinel with a swift and calculated manoeuvre, the force of the impact obliterating the machine in a shower of sparks and shrapnel. He didn’t slow down—the Sentinel right behind that one; he flipped over the broken head, spinning around as fast as he could to make a small whirlwind. He delivered a powerful blow to the shoulder of the second machine, drilling down through it to its pelvis. The sheer force of his strike tore through the machine's torso like paper, shattering it completely and sending its limbs scattering in all directions.
Pietro's speed had always been a formidable asset, one that the Sentinels' scanners struggled to keep pace with. He recalled the training sessions with Forge, where X-Factor had used an outdated model of the Sentinel as a mock opponent. It had been a laughable display, the outdated technology proving no match for their combined skills, although Rahne had found the experience unsettling.
Though now, as he faced the real deal on the streets of Genosha, Pietro couldn't help but wonder if Forge's training exercise had been a deliberate ploy to lull them into a false sense of security. It was a sobering realisation, the fact that X-Factor’s benefactors had always intended for them to be wiped out by murder robots after using them for their own needs.
Pietro's resolve hardened, Magneto's old mantra of homo superior echoing in the recesses of his mind.
He continued to battle against the relentless tide of Sentinels, staying vigilant, staying fast. If the Sentinels—if the humans —thought they could outsmart mutants like himself and his team, they were sorely mistaken. If Wanda or Madrox or Guido or Rahne were harmed there would be hell to pay. It was almost a relief that Lorna and Havok weren't here.
His lightning-fast movements dispatched the ‘smaller’ Sentinels with ease, clearing the street of the immediate threat. Even as he fought, a nagging sense of unease gnawed at the edges of his consciousness, the presence of the colossal Sentinel looming ominously in the periphery of his vision. He knew the small ones were just a distraction, but his mission was to save the people—
His focus wavered for just a second, his attention momentarily drawn to a figure in the distance— the beast was aiming at—!
Pietro tripped, again.
A sudden jolt of panic seized him as he stumbled over an unseen obstacle. With a sharp cry of surprise, he was sent sprawling, tumbling uncontrollably until he collided with a lamppost with bone-jarring force, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs and leaving him temporarily stunned.
He struggled to shake off the disorienting effects of his fall, his eyes struggling to focus. In a haze of confusion, he watched as Erik smashed into the statue of Professor Xavier, the force of the crash sending the monument plummeting to the ground on its side and —oh god.
The screams.
His head throbbed relentlessly. He tried to focus, to send his mind into superspeed, but he couldn’t hold it. The screams phased in and out as he tried to get up. Pietro's heart clenched with a sickening sense of dread, his mind struggling to comprehend what was happening. Despair took over, every instinct pushing him to act, to do something, anything, but he found himself paralysed—why couldn’t he—all he could do was bear witness—
There was an eerie stillness that followed the monument's collapse. Misery swamped the air, the disconcerting silence broken only by a solitary shout. Pietro's gaze snapped upward, drawn instinctively to the source of the commotion, and what he saw filled him with a mixture of awe and disbelief.
In the distance, with its form towering against the backdrop of the crumbling cityscape, the colossal Sentinel gazed down upon its prey. But before it could unleash another devastating assault, a sudden blur of white—a train was hurtling through the air with impossible speed, on a collision course with the towering behemoth.
The collision unleashed a cataclysmic explosion, a blinding burst of flames and billowing smoke that engulfed the surrounding area in a searing inferno. Pietro instinctively shielded his eyes from the intense glare, jaw clenching as he braced himself against the shockwave that rippled through the air. Around him, civilians who had gathered to witness the unfolding chaos recoiled in terror, their cries of alarm drowned out by the roar of the flames.
With a menacing clang, the Sentinel began to charge up another devastating attack, its glowing eyes fixed on its intended target. But before it could unleash its fury upon the makeshift weapon, the train coiled back like a whip, its metal frame contorting and flexing with unnatural agility as it lashed out at the towering behemoth with astonishing force again and again. Each strike sent more and more shockwaves across the landscape as the beast staggered under the assault.
Magneto was certainly a sight to behold. He stood resolute, his presence on the battlefield was nothing short of awe-inspiring. He defended his country with unwavering resolve, a force of nature in his own right. A surge of pride swelled within Pietro as he witnessed Erik’s raw display of power, eclipsing any doubts or reservations he had harboured about their relationship in the past. At this very moment, he had never been more proud to be his son.
Pietro grinned as he surveyed the scene unfolding around him, a newfound sense of hope coursing through his veins like a surge of electricity. Spotting Madrox and Rahne in the distance, he wasted no time in rushing to their aid. He raced across the battlefield, the thunderous impact of Magneto's attacks echoing in the distance like a symphony of defiance.
With a quick glance, he took in the scene before him—a sinkhole, a collapsed building, civilians trapped within. And looming ominously above them, a normal-sized Sentinel descended from the sky with deadly intent. His teammates were working tirelessly to guide civilians to safety, unaware of the threat.
Pietro's mind raced as he improvised a plan to divert the Sentinel's attention away from his vulnerable teammates. With swift agility, he sprinted in a tight circle, kicking up a cloud of dust in his wake, hoping to draw the Sentinel’s gaze towards him. He had to be careful here—a single blast from the thing could jeopardise his friends and the civilians.
As the Sentinel's attention shifted towards him, Pietro couldn't help but smirk, a flicker of mischief dancing in his eyes as he exchanged a playful wink with Rahne. He swiped a rock from the ground and darted up the nearest wall, his movements fluid and graceful. With a deft flick of his wrist, he hurled the rock at the Sentinel's head, aiming to keep its focus squarely on him and away from his team. The impact elicited a metallic clang as it struck its target.
The Sentinel turned its attention skyward, and Pietro was about to lead it away from the area when a sudden rush of air signalled the arrival of Archangel.
With a powerful sweep of his metallic wings, Archangel soared past, his razor-sharp appendages slicing through the air with lethal precision. In one swift motion, he cleaved the Sentinel's head clean off its mechanical shoulders, sending it crashing to the ground in a clamour of twisted metal and sparks. Archangel spun gracefully, sneering at the Sentinel for a moment. He shot Pietro a solemn nod, before soaring off into the sky.
He didn’t even get a chance to say thank you; he was grateful nonetheless. Descending from his perch on the wall with fluid grace, he quickly made his way towards Madrox.
"Hey, you good?" Pietro inquired, his voice laced with concern as he took in the strain etched upon Madrox's features. It was clear that his friend had been pushed to his limits during the evacuation.
“Yeah,” he muttered, pulling a civilian up from the rubble. “Got copies out around the streets.”
That would explain it. “I think the majority of the Sentinels are heading towards the bay,” Pietro said, speeding a woman with a broken leg up the ledge. “The gardens are safe, for now.”
“I'll spread the word.” Madrox took the woman gently, securing her in his arms, a grim determination set in his jaw. “Where’d Rahne go?”
They both looked around. She was nowhere to be seen.
“I just saw her…” Pietro murmured, his brow furrowing in concern. He swallowed hard, suppressing the rising tide of apprehension. “I’ll find her, you get going.”
The ground trembled beneath Pietro's feet as Magneto delivered another powerful blow to the colossal beast in the distance.
“Kick ass,” Madrox said with a grin, before swiftly darting down the street, his focus shifting to ensuring the safety of those in his charge.
Pietro's gaze lingered on Madrox's retreating form for a moment, a flicker of concern appearing in his eyes before he turned his attention to the rubble-strewn expanse before him. The remains of the structure were on the brink of collapse. It would be too risky for him to rely on his superspeed on such unstable terrain, but his instincts urged him to find Rahne, to ensure her safety. She was resourceful and driven by an unwavering commitment to saving lives. Perhaps she had caught wind of someone's faint cry for help or detected the subtle scent of fear lingering in the air.
Another tremor jolted the ground beneath him, sending a shower of debris cascading down around the unstable building. It was seconds away from collapsing entirely, and if Rahne was indeed inside... the thought alone was enough to propel Pietro into action.
He leapt into the gaping maw of the sinkhole, the chaos around him fading into a surreal slow-motion as he once again manipulated time to his advantage. With each calculated step, Pietro navigated the treacherous terrain underground, his senses attuned to every subtle shift and creaking of the earth. His keen eyes darted across the shadowed labyrinth of debris, searching desperately for any sign of his wayward friend.
There—a flicker of yellow caught his eye.
Rahne in her half-wolf form, stood tall and steadfast, was cradling a child protectively against her chest. Relief flooded Pietro's heart at the sight of her, but it was short-lived as the earth shook once more. Without hesitation, he sprang into action, his reflexes honed to perfection as he deftly moved to shield Rahne and the child from harm. In one swift motion, he scooped them into his arms, their weight barely registering as he propelled them out of the perilous depths effortlessly.
Behind them, the remnants of the crumbling building gave one final shudder before collapsing into itself in a thunderous crash. Pietro's heart hammered as he watched the destruction unfold—if he had been a second later…
The little girl Rahne had rescued was squirming, crying softly in her rescuer’s arms. Tenderly, he took the child from her hold, whispering soft reassurances in a bid to calm her.
Rahne slumped to the ground, her breaths ragged and laboured, a hand pressed against her stomach as a grimace of pain contorted her features. Despite her own distress, she managed a weak smile of gratitude through her pants.
“Thanks, Quicky.” Rahne gasped between coughs, her voice strained with exhaustion.
"Just get to the gardens," Pietro said softly, his tone gentle yet firm as he carefully returned the child to Rahne's arms.
He hesitated for a moment, a sense of unease settling over him like a dark cloud. Something felt off—too quiet, too still. The relentless quakes that had rocked the island had now ceased, leaving an eerie calm in their wake.
Rahne's expression shifted to one of concern, her gaze searching his face for answers. "Where’re you going?" she inquired, her voice tinged with apprehension.
He gave Rahne a pained look, the words caught in his throat. How could he possibly explain the sheer panic that had overcome him in this instance? His gaze flickered between her and the direction of the bay, where the battle raged on—where his father had been fighting for them, and losing.
Rahne's eyes widened in realisation as she pieced together his intentions. "Pietro—" she began, her voice tinged with urgency, but he was already gone.
The train, once a weapon wielded by Magneto, had spiralled out of control, careening towards its own destruction in a blossoming explosion of pink-hued energy.
The world around him blurred into a dizzying kaleidoscope of colours as he raced through the chaos. His legs carried him closer to the eye of the storm, to the epicentre of the conflict that the humans had thrust upon them. He was nearly at his limit, every fibre of his being screaming in protest, but he pressed on anyway.
Ahead, the towering form of the three-headed Sentinel loomed like a harbinger of doom, ready to pass judgment on mutant kind.
“OMEGA-LEVEL THREAT DETECTED.”
The creature’s mechanical voice boomed through the air. Its eyes flickered from red to green as it charged another devastating attack, body crackling with energy as it gathered power.
Pietro raced towards the rooftop where the survivors had gathered to tend to their wounded, their faces drawn with fear and uncertainty. Wanda was already there, her mere presence increasing the probability of the people's survival. Ignoring the clamour of voices around him, Pietro pushed past Wanda and hurried to the edge, his gaze locking onto the scene below where Rogue and Gambit and the Morlocks and Erik—
He was sure everyone was watching in slow motion now, as the creature sent a horrifying continuous beam where his father was, shaking the earth with its intensity and sending metal and debris flying all over. Wanda's sharp intake of breath echoed his own sense of anguish, and together, they watched in stunned silence as Magneto and the Morlocks vanished beneath the barrage of energy, swallowed by the blinding light that consumed everything in its path.
“Mein Gott…” Nightcrawler breathed out, holding onto Wanda to stay upright, his strength wavering.
Wanda’s hand suddenly gripped Pietro's arm, as if she knew he was about to take off, to try and save Erik. He shook her off, clutching the parapet hard enough for the brink to crumble under his fingers.
Despair latched onto him as Rogue struggled valiantly to reach Erik, her efforts thwarted by the intervention of Gambit. Both were unexpectedly pinned to a nearby pole when some of the metal wreckage warped around them, binding them in a cruel embrace to keep them away from the blast.
Pietro's brow furrowed as he felt a strange pulsating sensation coming from his pocket. He pulled out the—chain? The metal writhed and squirmed in his palm, liquefying around his fingers.
“Is that…?” Wanda's voice trailed off into a whisper, her gaze darting between the bracelet in his hand and the scene unfolding before them, to where Magneto was shielding the Morlocks from harm.
A lump formed in Pietro's throat as he realised Erik was saying goodbye. “...I think so," he muttered. His hand trembled slightly as he shook his head in denial, closing his fist around the gift his father had given him.
“No…” She said, voice quivering. “Kurt, can’t you…?”
“I’m so sorry,” the teleporter rasped, despair in his glowing eyes. “I... I have to be able to see where I’m going.”
“Wanda.” Pietro ignored the chorus of the cries around him, the piercing sound of the death ray. “Your hex—could it withstand—”
Wanda was already shaking her head, her voice trembling with uncertainty. "I—I'm not sure—that amount of power—it'd shatter in a second!" Her words were tinged with fear, pleading.
"One second is all I need," he declared, his voice firm with determination as he pushed aside his doubts. His heart was beating out of his chest.
Nightcrawler's look of shock and Rogue's shouts from below faded into the background as Wanda stared at him, wasting time. He knew the risks, the odds stacked against him, but he had to try. This was their father.
He reached for her hand, placing it over his heart. “Please,” he begged. “I trust you.”
Wanda's gaze bore into his own, her expression inscrutable—like she was trying to read his mind. And then, with a solemn nod, she murmured words of a promise of protection as a crimson circle materialised on Pietro's chest, pulsating with an otherworldly energy that seemed to lock onto his very soul.
Tears shimmered in Wanda's eyes, her resolve faltering for just a moment. Pietro offered her an encouraging smile, his heart heavy with the knowledge that this could very well be their final exchange. They both knew it, and she was letting him go anyway.
“I love you,” he whispered, his voice choking with emotion. He took off before he could see her response.
The green death ray grew closer and closer by the nanosecond. He glanced to where metal was now covering Rogue and Gambit, protecting them from annihilation. He fought to maintain his footing, his steps faltering slightly as he approached the point where the beam hit Erik’s shield.
Green and blue reflected in his eyes, the heat and brightness imploring him to look away.
He didn’t.
Cracks began to spiderweb across the surface of Erik's shield, nearing its breaking point. Magneto’s powers were failing, the dome of magnetic energy fading even as it crackled with raw power—still trying so hard to protect those under his care.
Wanda’s hex pulsed under his skin, cocooning him, red mixing with the green and blue in his eyes. In that moment of stillness, time stretched impossibly thin, each passing second an eternity unto itself. Pietro knew that the timing had to be perfect—that the second the shield broke would be his only chance. Too soon or too late would kill him. Every muscle in his body coiled with anticipation, ready to unleash the full force of his speed at a moment's notice.
He took a deep breath, his focus steady as he knelt on the ground, his fingertips grazing the burned earth. He had already broken his personal records multiple times today—what was one more?
As the cracks in Erik's shield multiplied, beads of sweat trickled down his temple.
Erik’s eyes found his, widening.
The shield shattered, splintering into a thousand fragments that scattered like shards of glass upon the wind.
Pietro pushed his powers to their absolute limit, the world around him slowing to a near standstill as he entered a realm where time itself seemed to bend to his will. In that infinitesimal fraction of a second, the deadly beam hung suspended in the air above his father.
He ran.
He ran.
The heat of the laser was already grazing Erik and the Morlocks and—
He couldn’t save the Morlocks. Not even the poor boy clinging to—
There was no time. He sprinted past, his arms circling Erik’s middle from behind. The beam was touching them, the Morlocks already vaporised—
Wanda’s hex trembled, strengthening at the area where the beam was burning him—
Cradling his father’s damaged body, he tried to shield him, already failing. He kept running — never faltering, never doubting, never stopping.
Then—
=͟͟͞͞ =͟͟͞͞ ( *:₀｡𖤍 ｡₀:*‿୨
Notes:
yapping: the fic. action scenes are hard. how many times do I have to describe the Wild Sentinel AND its booger beam of death,,, like c’mon,,,
For real though, it was important to me that I show how badass Quicksilver is, as well as the struggle the other mutants on Genosha went through in episode 5. Like,, as epic and horrific the episode was, I can’t help but feel like something was missing. I think I’m just displeased with how little we saw of Genosha, and how quickly 97 seems to be speeding through these plot points :|
Chapter Text
=͟͟͞͞ =͟͟͞͞ ( *:₀｡𖤍 ｡₀:*‿୨
Erik Lehnsherr’s soul was ablaze.
The searing inferno consumed every inch of his body. It seeped through him like molten metal, invading his bones and filling his lungs with the taste of complete and utter burning agony. Each laboured breath was a struggle. His chest felt constricted as if bound by invisible, blistering chains. He tried to reach for them, tried to pull them off, break them apart, but they were not made of anything he could feel.
Deep in the recesses of his mind, the pain ignited memories. Ghosts from the past he had fought so hard to bury. He had felt this blaze once before; the fire of hatred only humanity could fan the flames of so thoroughly. The flames roared tales of persecution, scarring his skin, forcing him to remember echoes of a time when he had been only a child, a prisoner of intolerance.
Barbed wire fences. His mother’s wail as he was torn from her arms. The metallic tang of blood on the roof of his mouth. The nauseating stench of the bodies of his people.
Mother.
Father.
Uncle.
Each wave of pain was a reminder of the cataclysm that was determined to consume this world—the wildfire of cruelty that had consumed his family, his innocence, his very soul.
What must we do to be good enough?
Darkness threatened to swallow him whole, its tendrils reaching out to claim him in an icy embrace. And yet, even as his body screamed for him to fall down the glacier, to find rest —a stubborn resilience sparked deep within, another memory of his adolescent self trying to resist the depths of humanity’s brutality, raging against the tempest.
Magda.
Anya.
He refused to be extinguished.
It was not in his nature to die. He was no stranger to pain. He had gazed into the quagmire of humanity’s heart and emerged stronger. Magneto was forged in the crucible of war, tempered by the need to survive and then to avenge. Oblivion beckoned him from beyond, shadows stalked him, reached for him, and he refused.
Never again.
Within the suffocating haze of pain, faint whispers danced at the edge of his consciousness, tugging at the frayed threads of his fading awareness and anchoring him to the realm of the living. A glimmer of hope, a fragile lifeline calling him from the abyss. The world felt distant and unreal to him. His senses were muddled, his perception of reality shrouded by a thick fog of despair. He tried to open his eyes, but he could barely get even his lungs to work, as though he were submerged beneath an ocean of lead.
The last thing he remembered was the blinding light of the Sentinel’s attack, the scalding heat that had engulfed him as he tried so desperately to shield the Morlocks with his failing strength. The creature had torn through the city with a wrathful god’s fury and decimated his people.
Did they not have the same god?
He was… somewhere else, teetering on the brink of death. He wondered if it had all been in vain. The X-Men, the sacrifices, Charles— had they meant anything in the end? Or were they nothing more than the futile struggles of an old man?
He recalled Charles’ whispered promises of a better tomorrow—their dream of a world where mutant-kind could walk free, unshackled by the chains of oppression. Now, on account of that dream, Charles was gone, and Erik’s life was flickering in and out like a dying flame, his body ravaged by a battle he had fought alone.
He did not even know the names of those lost. He can still see their faces, the sea of innocent souls torn from this world by the cruel machinations of the humans’ prejudice.
How could he have been so naive?
A lighthouse shined its spotlight on him, the warm glow parting the darkness like a beacon to cradle him in a tender embrace. The steady beam banished the dark, casting away the shadows that clawed at him. Red sparks caressed his mangled soul, dancing across his skin and leaving behind a trail of numbing warmth. It was almost ethereal. He was not worthy of such kindness.
Something cool touched his forehead, a gentle caress that seemed to soothe the boiling heat that raged within him.
“He’s not getting better…” A familiar voice drifted through the fog, tone thick with worry and uncertainty.
Erik strained to make sense of the words, to grasp onto the thread of conversation, but the voice trailed off into the ether, lost among the swirling mists of his shattered mind. In that fragile moment, he lay suspended between the realms of wakefulness and eternity, clinging to the faint echoes of sound that tethered him to the world.
“I’m trying… ro…” A more feminine voice argued. “ He’s trying... Whatever… hit him with…” The words hung heavy in the air, each syllable laden with unspoken dread.
“Did you hear from…” The first voice trailed off into silence, its echoes fading as Erik drifted further into the depths of unconsciousness.
Try as he might, he just could not grasp the elusive fragments of conversation any longer. He surrendered himself to the ebb and flow of the scarlet sanctuary that had secured his mind, allowing the mystical feeling to keep him safe in that liminal space between dreams and reality.
Erik stood at the edge of the playground, arms crossed loosely as he watched Wanda dart after Pietro, their laughter ringing out like music. His eyes followed them closely, alert even in this moment of peace. Wanda's giggles rose, pure beautiful birdsong, as she chased her brother in dizzying circles, while Pietro—quick, clumsy, and all limbs—scrambled up the slide in a tangle of knees and elbows, defying gravity with boyish chaos.
A soft touch brushed his cheek, startling him slightly. He turned just in time to see Magda standing beside him, her fingers cool and deliberate as she dabbed a cream onto the bridge of his nose and cheeks. He winced and tried to pull back, only for her to pull him back by his ear.
“Ow.”
“Not so fast, mister,” Magda scolded affectionately as she applied the sunscreen. “It’s far too hot out. If the kids have it on, so do you.”
He wrinkled his nose in protest, his frown more habit than annoyance. There was a softness in her touch that undid him. It had been so long—so painfully long—since he’d seen her like this. The dream had weight and color, almost too vivid to doubt. She looked just as he remembered. The way the sunlight caught in Magda’s curls, the faint shimmer of gloss on her lips, the warm scent of her perfume drifting in the air. She was so achingly beautiful.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he whispered, voice thick as he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close and anchoring himself in her warmth. He pressed his chin to the crown of her head, closing his eyes. “I love you, is all.”
“I love you too,” Magda murmured, her voice softening as she relaxed into his embrace.
“Daaaad…” A voice chimed behind him. Erik didn’t get to turn before arms looped around him from behind.
Anya?
She pressed against his back, clinging to him with childlike affection. Erik's breath caught as he released Magda, eager to turn, to see her face—but the moment shattered like glass. Darkness swept over his vision in an instant. The warmth, the scent, the dream of his family together began to fade away, leaving only silence in its wake.
The next time he awoke, Erik could still feel the lingering phantoms of the aches and burns that had ravaged his body. Yet, to his surprise, the agony that had once gripped him with merciless ferocity was still dulled, muted to a faint echo of its former intensity.
He could actually breathe now.
His eyes fluttered open, blinking against the soft light that filled the room. Trembling, he parted his lips, attempting to speak, to make any sound, but the words caught in his throat like shards of glass, jagged and sharp. He could breathe, but every breath was a struggle, every attempt a testament to his sheer will to survive.
He felt the perimeter, hooking onto every bit of ore and metal in his vicinity. There was a mass right next to him, and when he braced himself, lifting his head up slightly to see—icy pain shot down his spine. Through gritted teeth, he pushed past the agony, forcing his eyes to focus, to pierce through the haze. He could see—oh, Pietro …
The boy was sitting in a chair next to the bed, hunched over with his head resting against the mattress. Pietro was holding… He couldn’t even feel Pietro holding his hand, resting his cheek against it as he dozed.
Pietro looked so pale. Bags under his eyes and bruises on his face. His torso and arms, like his, were littered with bandages.
Erik squeezed his eyes shut, willing away his dizziness. He couldn’t move much. He tried to find the will to move, and after a moment of trembling, he caressed his son’s cheek lightly with the crook of his finger. He could feel his breathing, and that was enough.
He relaxed, falling back into a peaceful slumber.
“I would like you to wear this,” Erik said to Pietro during one of his visits. In his palm was a simple chain link bracelet, dotted in flecks of red and purple and blue. “The minerals inside are unique,” he continued, fingers curling protectively around the piece as if shielding it from judgment. “I could feel it anywhere.”
Pietro arched a brow, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know I’m not one for jewellery, Dad.”
“Indeed,” Erik replied, offering a faint, self-conscious smile. He glanced away for a moment, the corners of his mouth tightening, choosing his words carefully. “I would just… Like to know if you are close by.” The admission came with a hint of reluctance, like saying it aloud made it too vulnerable, too earnest. Still, he didn’t take it back.
“Oh.” Pietro’s expression softened, the teasing edge fading. He reached out and gently took the chain from his father’s hand, turning it over once, thoughtfully.
“Here.” Erik stepped closer, unhooking the clasp with practiced care. He fastened the bracelet around Pietro’s wrist, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary. It fit snugly, not too tight.
Pietro looked down at it, rotating his wrist slightly. “Feels weird,” he said, but not unkindly.
“I know it is silly,” he said, his voice quieter now. “But I spent too many years not knowing where you were. I do not want to guess anymore.”
“You worry about me that much?”
Erik didn’t answer right away. He looked at his son—really looked—and in that instant saw not just the speedster, not the impossible blur, but the boy he could have held in his arms, hair always tousled, always running just out of reach.
“Yes,” he said simply.
Pietro glanced away, swallowing. He didn’t say thank you, but he didn’t take the bracelet off either.
When Erik awoke this time, he found the strength to actually look around.
The dim light didn’t sting as much. Someone had stripped him of his torn suit, replacing it with unremarkable trousers and layers of clean bandages across his torso. The scent of antiseptic clung to his skin, sharp and sterile beneath the faint aroma of candle wax and dust. His body still ached—every muscle sore, every joint heavy—but like before, the pain was distant, muffled, as though filtered through layers of cotton and fog.
He was lying in a bed that didn’t belong to any hospital. The room was quaint—surprisingly so. Lived-in. Familiar. There were books stacked in uneven towers on a nearby shelf, posters curling at the edges on the walls, half-melted candles on the nightstand, and a jacket slung over a desk chair. He took it all in slowly, blinking against the burn in his eyes. It reminded him too much of that other life—the brief, precious one with Magda and Anya. Before everything fractured.
Pietro was no longer at his side. His son now occupied the other bed across the room, unconscious but breathing. His frame was still battered and bruised. Even in sleep, there was a tension to his posture, a body that hadn’t truly let go of the fight.
Wanda had taken her brother’s place in the chair beside Erik, seated quietly with a book resting in her hands. Her presence was a calm one, but not distant. Not cold. She didn’t look at him right away, though she must have known the moment he stirred.
When he turned his head, he expected the sharp, paralyzing pain to surge up his spine again—but it didn’t come. Just a dull throb. Manageable.
He tried to speak, tried to say her name, but all that escaped was a rough, broken grunt.
Wanda looked up at once. She set the book down gently in her lap, the motion quiet and deliberate. “Shhh,” she soothed, and raised a glass to his lips, steadying the straw with practiced care. He drank, though it was clumsy—there was no dignified way to sip water like this, not with cracked lips and a throat like sandpaper. But at this point, Erik no longer cared about appearances, not in front of his estranged daughter.
“There we go,” she murmured, brushing a strand of damp hair from his forehead, her fingers ghosting across his skin with surprising tenderness.
He coughed, voice gravel-thick. “What…”
“Pietro,” she said softly, glancing toward her brother’s sleeping form. “He grabbed you before the blast could…”
Kill you went unsaid—but it hung there, heavy in the silence.
“The Morlocks—the child…” But he had seen it. In those last moments —Leech—
“I’m sorry, Erik.”
His head fell back onto the pillow, and he squeezed his eyes shut as tears gathered at the corners. “No…” The word was raw, torn from his chest. He had failed.
Wanda reached for his hand and held it tightly. She didn’t try to say anything more. She was just there. That was all.
“Pietro would’ve saved them if he could.” Her voice was a whisper, and he could feel how badly she wanted him to believe it.
His hand tensed in hers. “Why didn’t he?” he spat, and the room responded—metal groaned faintly, the legs of the bed shivering under the strain of his rising anger.
Wanda’s eyes flared. “He nearly died getting you out of there.” Her voice sharpened, the gentle edge gone. She rose suddenly, standing tall despite the tremble in her breath. She had tried to be nice before, but it appeared he had crossed a line. “...I will not argue with a hurt old man.”
She left, brisk and silent, her exit final. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving him to suffer alone.
Erik stared at the ceiling for a long moment, his breathing ragged, the silence heavier than it had been before. Then he turned his head—slowly, carefully—toward his son.
Pietro lay still, his chest rising in short, shallow breaths. Erik focused on him, tried to feel him with more than his eyes—the pull of iron in his blood, the soft static of metal on his fingertips. He could sense all of it. It was enough. It told him his son lived. It would be comforting, if he was not in so much pain.
And yet… Erik had seen him earlier. Blurred images—Pietro adjusting a blanket, pressing water to his lips, resting briefly at his side despite his own injuries. He’d been there, caring for him, even when he could barely stand. And now Erik had the audacity to be angry? To accuse?
What a hypocrite he was—preaching to Rogue and Gambit about the futility of wondering what if , and now here he was, lashing out at his own child for not saving everyone. Pietro saved him over the others, and while he can regret and wish Pietro had saved those more deserving, who was he to blame a son for refusing to let his father die?
He was the one who had looked Leech in the eyes and promised he would never be afraid again.
He was the one who lied.
A sharp, ragged breath tore from his chest, unable to stop the tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes.
He failed. He had been unable to uphold his duty of care to the Morlocks, to mutants, to his own children… His only saving grace was that they had even survived the attack. That they were still breathing.
He did not know what he would have done if he had lost them.
After a few minutes, exhaustion overtook him once more. His mind frayed at the edges, pain lapping in again like a tide. Erik drifted back into unconsciousness, swallowed by the restless churn of nightmares that never seemed to change.
Max-Erik-Magneto was dancing. He moved with practiced grace, spinning his partner beneath a constellation of fractured stars. He lifted her easily by the hips, the weightless joy of it almost intoxicating, her laughter light in his ears. For a moment, the world was quiet, held in that breathless rhythm. Then he guided her backward, waltzing her into the dark.
Magda smiled up at him—shy, radiant, full of wonder—and then she twirled. Her eyes darkened. The smile vanished, replaced by Wanda’s familiar, storming scowl. Now, The Scarlet Witch shoved him hard, and Erik stumbled, tumbled—fell. Down, down, endlessly down.
A streak of blue blurred beneath him, a cold wind wrapping around his limbs. Pietro caught him—only to fling him sideways with a bitter twist of his mouth, casting him into fire. Flames roared around him, heat licking up his spine as sneering figures closed in with pitchforks and snarls, their eyes gleaming with hatred. Through the smoke, he saw his children. Quicksilver, carrying Wanda in his arms, vanished into the blaze, leaving Erik alone to hear Anya’s voice—her scream.
He turned, desperate, but too late.
A violent yank wrenched him upward. His armour had come alive, dragging him from the flames and suspending him high above the burning house—the house where his child was dying. He dangled, every heartbeat echoing his failure. Polaris hovered nearby, her eyes cold, unmoving. She said nothing.
She didn’t have to.
Her silence screamed, louder than rage, sharper than grief. Her fingers curled into a trembling fist—and Erik felt it, the crushing weight in his chest, his own armour turned against him.
Everything that needed to be said was written in the tension of her hand. And he broke beneath it.
He woke up hot and cold, trembling and sweating.
He found relief in something cool and damp touching his forehead, not the divine scarlet that comforted him before.
“Hush.” A stern, gravelly voice said.
Erik felt some tugging on his bandaged wounds, flinching when something freezing touched his skin, followed by a burning sensation. He grunted, leaning away. This was not someone he knew.
“Stop. You will hurt yourself.” The voice said as a pressure on his shoulder kept him in place.
He slowly opened his eyes, glaring at the stranger next to him. He looked vaguely familiar, but not someone he paid much attention to or noticed. The man looked to be Erik’s age, not much hair on his head, but with a mighty beard. He seemed amused at Erik’s expression.
“Despite how much you offend my daughter, you are safe here, Magneto,” he said gruffly, a fond glint in his eyes. Daughter? This was—
“Django?” Erik choked, trying to sit up. The man who took in his children. The man who told the twins to seek answers in the first place.
“Ah—” Django swatted at his bicep, gently pushing him back down. “Please, do not stress yourself.”
“I—”
He placed a hand on Erik’s chest to keep him steady. “The children are fine. Pietro is getting better,” the other man reassured him.
Erik’s brow twitched involuntarily at his words. He had never met this man before—only knew of him from Pietro. A good man, and a good father.
Tension gripped him unexpectedly, a primal instinct urging him to fight or flee. He wanted to grab ahold of his children and take them far away from this place—which he assumed was their…
Childhood home.
…What had he expected upon meeting him? Django sat by his side, posture calm and unbothered, the kind of demeanour that spoke volumes about his character.
Erik’s eyes roamed the room, taking in the family photos lining the walls, the well-worn furniture, and the scattered toys that hinted at happy, chaotic days. This was the world his children had grown up in, a world Django and Marya had built for them. It was a home built on love and stability, everything Erik did not provide. His mind raced, grappling with a mix of gratitude and resentment toward this man who had stepped in and become the father Erik never even had the chance to be.
“...It is dangerous to house me,” he said eventually, relaxing into the pillows. Erik's voice was a mere whisper, barely cutting through the heavy dread in the room.
His eyes flickered to Django, who remained composed. The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing on the walls as if reflecting Erik's inner strife. His fight had gone, despite the weak attempt to convince Django otherwise. Erik’s attempt to push him away had been half-hearted at best, a desperate gesture born out of fear more than conviction. His gaze lingered on the other man’s face, searching for any sign of doubt. But Django's expression remained resolute, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to the storm brewing within Erik.
“That is of no matter to me,” Django said warmly. He turned around briefly to check on Pietro, a fleeting moment of concern etched on his features before he returned his attention to Erik. “You love them, and they love you. You are family, and that is all that matters.”
Erik blanked at his words. He stared at Django, his mind struggling to process the simple yet profound declaration. The room seemed to fade away, leaving only the echo of Django’s words reverberating in his ears.
Family—such a loaded word, carrying with it a lifetime of expectations, responsibilities, and, above all, love. For Erik, it was a concept fraught with uncertainty, a distant dream he had long since abandoned—it felt foreign and fragile, like something he could break with a single misstep. He had spent so long on the outside looking in, convinced he didn’t deserve such a bond. Yet here was Django, offering him a place within it without hesitation or judgment.
Erik could only nod silently, his throat tight with unspoken emotions.
“Rest. There is no danger here,” the other man murmured as he flipped the damp towel on Erik’s forehead, his touch gentle and reassuring. Erik closed his eyes, allowing the coolness of the cloth to soothe the ache that throbbed behind his temples. He felt the tension in his muscles begin to ebb away, replaced by a sense of peace.
Perhaps he could recover from this—as long as this patchwork family he had found was there.
Erik halted his relentless assault on the facility the moment the Avengers descended from the sky in their jet. Their arrival was swift, precise—a carefully orchestrated interruption that grated against him more than he cared to admit. His fists stilled, his eyes narrowing with a simmering frustration. It irked him to no end, this inconvenient restraint forced upon him by their arrival. They knew his limits. They knew the one line he would never cross.
They knew he would not fight his daughter.
That knowledge was a weapon sharper than any blade or blast.
He could feel their eyes on him, calculating, waiting for a misstep. The tension in the air was sharp, electric—a silent standoff between two forces that knew the true battlefield was something else entirely.
The Avengers prepared to press their advantage, and Erik retreated, his jaw clenched, knowing that this war was far from over. He could feel the storm beneath his skin, raw and desperate. But for now, some lines remained sacred. He had crossed too many lines before, sacrificed too much. Not here. Not her.
Some battles were meant to be avoided at all costs.
Erik’s eyes fluttered open slowly. There was no pain, not at first. Only the warmth of stillness, the faint scent of something floral—lavender, perhaps—and a familiar tingling hum beneath his skin, the soothing red sorcery, he knew now, had returned.
He let out a slow breath and turned his head slightly. Wanda sat beside him, her eyes already on him, watchful and unreadable.
“Hallo,” he said simply.
Wanda wrinkled her nose and turned it up at him pointedly. She didn’t speak at first, lips pursed in clear judgment, her jaw set with quiet stubbornness. She was still clinging to her irritation—he could see it in the set of her brow—but even that didn’t last long. Her shoulders slumped as if the weight of everything dragged her down, and with a quiet sigh, she reached for his hand.
“Father said I shouldn’t be mad at you. We’re all very stressed right now,” Wanda said apologetically. “The news… The news isn’t helping.”
Erik gave her a small, weary smile, and rubbed his thumb against her knuckles. Her hand was cold. “ I am sorry. I should not have snapped at you.” A pause passed, shadowed by a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “The news?”
Wanda’s gaze dropped. She looked away, her whole posture tightening. “It’s been a few days since…” She trailed off, and then pulled in a slow breath that shuddered through her. Her fingers ran through her hair before she lowered her head into her hands. “There’s no way to even know how many died.”
He closed his eyes, pain blooming again in his chest—different from the physical wounds. Deeper. He had lived through that kind of aftermath before: nameless graves, uncounted corpses, screams that lived on only in memory. Never knowing. Never stopping. Sometimes he still wasn’t sure whether it had been a blessing or a curse to survive that firing squad, to claw his way out of the pit his family was buried in. He only knew one thing—he had survived because his father had tried to shield him.
And this time, his son had done the same.
Humans. Always humans. Their cruelty endured like rust on the soul, passed down in systems and weapons and fear. They were always quick to name mutants the threat. Always first to burn what they didn’t understand.
“Are you going back to them?” he asked quietly. “Your team?” She didn’t flinch at the word, though he knew how bitter it sounded on his tongue. She stared at him with those beautiful green eyes of hers. So much like her mother.
“Yes.”
He almost said more—almost railed against the idea—but bit it back. The Avengers would get her killed. That much, he believed with certainty. They’d never truly protect her, not when it counted. Why couldn’t she stay? Why couldn’t she join Pietro among their own, where her powers wouldn’t be something to tiptoe around? But he said none of it. Genosha had brought them close again, and he would not waste it. She was here. That was something.
“Do they know you are here?”
“...No.” She said, though her voice betrayed her words. She was anxious about it. “They think Pietro and I are helping the survivors.”
Typical. “And none of them came with you?”
“No. They’re all busy with the fallout elsewhere. Trying to keep the peace. Trying to keep mutants safe.” Her voice cracked. “It’s like the whole world is breaking apart.”
Erik’s jaw tightened. Humans had razed Genosha to the ground. The place that had once been a sanctuary for mutants—a refuge from endless persecution—now lay in ruins, smoldering ashes swallowed by smoke and sorrow. The flames hadn’t just consumed buildings; they had scorched the future of their kind. He could feel it now—that simmering rage beneath his skin, the cold fury that had long defined him.
Wanda’s hand tightened around his as she watched him, the green of her eyes flickering with something between concern and caution. Erik caught the hesitation in her breath—the unspoken fear that his anger might break loose again.
“I am tired.” His voice was low, but every word carried the weight of iron. “Tired of watching the world set fire to everything I try to protect.”
She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she squeezed his hand gently, grounding him.
“We all are,” she said softly. “But fighting fire with fire... it won’t save us. Not really.”
His eyes—red-rimmed and worn—held hers. “We gave them a haven. A place to be safe. And humans came with their robots and poison in their hearts.” He shut his eyes, jaw clenched tight. “I have seen this before. You know I have. Despite that, I let myself believe we could have peace.”
Wanda opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught. Her hand was still in his, trembling now.
He looked at her again. Really looked. So young, and yet far too old for her years. His daughter, born with chaos in her veins and hope in her heart, sitting at the bedside of a man who had failed to shield her from the world.
“You are with them,” he said, the words heavy with unspoken accusation. “And they fight for a world that would see you— us —dead. Do you really think they care? The world does not care. The world will never care. Am I expected to believe in their justice?”
Wanda’s gaze faltered, but she held firm. “I fight to change that world. To stop the hatred before it consumes everything.”
Erik looked away, a bitter laugh catching in his throat. “Change? How many more have to die before change arrives? You think the Avengers will keep you safe? They could not save Genosha.”
The room fell into a heavy silence, filled only by the slow, steady breath of his son on the other side of the room.
“I want you here,” he said, voice rasping with exhaustion and something deeper—fear. “I want Pietro here. With me. Not with them.”
She shook her head, but gently. Not in defiance. “We can’t stay hidden, Father.”
“I do not want you hidden,” Erik muttered. “I want you safe .”
He turned his head toward the ceiling, chest rising and falling in shallow, pained breaths. “I would burn their world before I watch it take another child from me.”
Silence fell again. Wanda said nothing, and in her silence was understanding. Not agreement, not entirely—but she knew. She knew what he’d lost. What it had cost him to survive again, only to crawl out of the ashes with more ghosts clinging to his back.
His voice dropped further, just above a whisper.
“I am so very tired, Wanda.”
She laid her head gently on the edge of the bed beside his shoulder, curling into the quiet.
“I know,” she whispered. “Me too.”
The night was cool and still, a peaceful silence in the air around them. Above, the stars glittered in a wide, endless sprawl—sharp, cold sparks pricking through the dark, endless sky. Erik’s eyes traced the constellations, the shapes flickering in and out of focus like a fragile dream. He had only met Pietro recently, just over a year ago, after so many years alone. The distance between them was a chasm he was learning to bridge.
He lay on the slope of a hill, the grass tickling his fingers. Beside him, Pietro couldn’t keep still—shifting around, knees bouncing, tearing a blade of grass apart with restless hands.
“You are doing fairly well,” Erik teased, almost in disbelief.
Pietro huffed through his nose. “I’m trying.”
Erik turned his head, studying his son’s face. Pietro was watching the sky—intently, like it might give him something if he just looked hard enough.
“They’re slow,” Pietro muttered. “Stars. Not like anything else.”
“They have been burning longer than anything else we know,” Erik said. “Some of the ones we see now are already gone. Their light has just not finished the journey.”
Pietro glanced at him, unimpressed. “That’s dark, Erik.”
Erik smiled faintly. “It is the truth.”
For a while, neither of them spoke. Crickets chirped in the undergrowth, a steady rhythm that complimented the whisper of wind breezing through the grass. Pietro’s foot bumped his leg once—accidental, Erik thought—until it happened again and lingered.
The boy’s way of leaning close.
“I used to do this with Anya,” Erik said suddenly, his voice low. “When she was very small. She would point at every star and ask if it had a name. I told her yes, even if I did not know them.”
He felt Pietro’s stare, but didn’t meet it.
“She said the stars must be lonely. All that space between them.”
Erik’s throat tightened. He swallowed.
Pietro was quiet for a long time, unusually still beside him.
“Maybe they are lonely. Stuck.”
Erik looked at his son now. The way Pietro's face was tilted toward the sky, shadows softening his features. The same jawline, the same stubbornness in his brows—but lighter, freer somehow.
“Do you ever feel stuck?” Erik asked gently.
Pietro didn’t answer. But he didn’t get up, either. He stayed there, breathing in sync with the night.
“I used to think you would run forever,” Erik murmured. “That I would only ever see the blur you left behind.”
Another silence.
Then, softly, “I didn’t want to stop. Until you asked me to.”
Erik’s heart clenched. He reached out and let his hand rest briefly over Pietro’s wrist.
His son didn’t pull away.
Erik woke feeling… fine. Better than he had any right to, really. His body bore the aftermath—burns, bruises, the weight of healing fatigue—but it all seemed distant, like the pain belonged to someone else. The dull throb in his shoulder, the tightness of bandaged skin, it was tolerable. Almost forgettable.
What wasn’t forgettable was the sight of Pietro, curled in the chair beside him, chin resting on his fist, fast asleep in the worst possible position. His hair was a mess and his leg bounced in twitchy little spasms even in rest. It made Erik ache in a different way.
“Pietro,” he murmured softly, careful not to startle him.
Pietro sucked in a sharp breath, blinking awake. His eyes darted to Erik immediately, widening. “Dad?” he breathed, already leaning forward to grasp Erik’s hand like he didn’t believe it. “Wanda said you’d woken up a few times.”
Erik gave a faint grunt of confirmation. His throat was too dry for much else.
Without hesitation, Pietro grabbed a nearby cup, sliding a straw between his fingers and lifting it to Erik’s lips with a steadiness that surprised him.
“Are you alright?” Erik rasped afterwards.
Pietro scoffed under his breath, a dry, humorless sound. “You’re asking me that?”
“Yes.”
Pietro blinked, and Erik could almost see the internal scramble—like he didn’t know what to do with being asked, like he didn’t expect to be seen. He shrugged, awkward. “I’m… better than I was.”
Erik gave a small nod and started to shift upright with a soft groan. The world tilted slightly as he did, but he endured it. His hand reached out instinctively, tugging Pietro a little closer by the wrist. He studied his son’s face like it might vanish if he looked away. He brushed his thumb lightly along his jaw, analysing the fading bruises and the stubborn little lines of tension around his eyes.
Pietro swatted at him, too gentle to mean it. “I’m okay, old man. Leave me alone.”
“Never,” Erik replied, the word low and unguarded.
Pietro stilled.
He blinked again, slower this time, like something had just clicked inside him. Then his eyes dropped to his hands, fingers tightening around the fabric of his trousers.
“I thought you were dead,” he said quietly, voice cracking slightly. “When I pulled you out. I thought—just for a sec there, that I didn’t—that I didn’t get there fast enough.”
Erik’s chest tightened, but he said nothing. Instead, he reached out and cupped the back of Pietro’s head, drawing him in until his son’s head rested against his shoulder.
Pietro let himself be pulled. He shifted to the edge of the bed and folded into the embrace like he’d done it a thousand times before, though they both knew he hadn’t. His shoulders trembled faintly. Erik held him tighter.
No more speeches. No apologies. No confessions. Just warmth. Just a father and son in the quiet moment of mercy.
“Stay with me,” Erik whispered, voice cracking despite himself. “Please.”
Pietro pulled back slightly, searching his father’s face. “Dad, I…”
“Please.” Erik’s hand slipped to the curls at the base of Pietro’s neck, fingers weaving through white hair. “After all this…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I cannot risk you anymore.”
Pietro looked at him—really looked at him—torn and quiet and raw.
He didn’t give an answer. Not yet.
But that was okay.
Pietro leaned forward again, resting his forehead briefly against Erik’s. It was not a promise, not even reassurance. It was just contact. His hands remained clenched in Erik’s sleeves, jaw tight, eyes glimmering.
Erik didn’t push. He just held on.
He swallowed hard. The taste of smoke and ash still clung to the back of his throat. He knew it wasn’t over. Genosha’s ghosts would follow him, as Auschwitz’s had. He had made his peace with never knowing peace. But his children—his children should not have to learn the same.
Finally, Pietro whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”
And that was all Erik could ask for.
=͟͟͞͞ =͟͟͞͞ ( *:₀｡𖤍 ｡₀:*‿୨
Notes:
The first section of this chapter was actually the first bit I wrote out of the whole fic, right after episode 5 aired. Then I wanted to have Wanda and Pietro's reactions as it was happening, yada yada yada.
Sorry this took so long, and for leaving it on a cliffhanger. Just lost the motivation to do it. But, uh, a certain someone is holding my cat hostage until the dadneto event is over. So. The angsty title comes from the original angsty ending, which I could not be ASSED TO WRITE!!! How this leads to Bastion getting him? Uhhhhhh idk bro, who even cares. Series is officially done now. yay.
thank you Superherotiger for letting me post this chapter for the event <3 i see the 4d chess you're play with me... getting me to update an old fic... i see u...
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